What Movies Made Me Do by Susan Braudy Page A

people, his hands in prayer, the back of his head. They never show his face, they leave it to your imagination. That’s the art of it.”
    She had a reasonable aesthetic point. But I had to argue. “First of all, I thought you were doing something better than the cliché Bible movies. The challenge is to
show
Jack’s face and keep the holy feeling.”
    She snorted.
    I continued. “Cecil B. De Mille wasn’t working with the world’s most charismatic male face. Charisma is something a religious leader has in common with a movie idol.”
    Anita flicked her cigarette into the fireplace. “He doesn’t want to make movies, he wants to stop everything and debate his motivation for each word.” She stood and bent to sniff at the steam from the soup pot. The room was empty except for Allen and Jim pointing the video camera at us.
    Anita sat down slowly. “Jack is scared stiff of the role. But I had a great shoot last night, sixty red birds, all flying over the beach, the synagogue burning. Murnau never had such textures. You’ll see dailies; I love you for making this happen,” but her voice cracked with tension.
    I pulled her last two weeks of production schedules out of my shoulder bag. “Look, you never worked with a major star till now. He’s probably shattered over his failed romance. God knows, you been there. Handle him. He’s destroying you. You stopped shooting his face and he’s been unavailable for work three days out of four; you’re twenty-eight days behind schedule.” I began reading production reports out loud. “ ‘Mr. Hanscomb late for beach scene forty-five minutes, his sandal straps don’t fit.’ ”
    “He’s sickly,” she yelled, “he had polio as a kid and he has everybody convinced he had a heart murmur on that picture in Tahiti three years ago. He’s a hypochondriac when it comes to work.”
    I kept reading. “ ‘Mr. Hanscomb unhappy with beach scene, sun too bright, robe too warm, argued with director, delay two hours. Scene shot without Mr. Hanscomb.’ ”
    She shrugged. “He wants every shot his way. He’d love a whole movie of tight shots of his profile.”
    “ ‘Mr. Hanscomb’s blood squib hit his right eye, scratched cornea, one-day delay. Mr. Hanscomb’s foot stepped on by Roman soldier, two-day delay, examined by first aid.’ ”
    “Candy-ass actor.”
    “ ‘Mr. Hanscomb inhaled smoke inside burning synagogue, set caught fire, absent three days.’ ”
    “Great scene. More passion than Malick’s fire in
Badlands.
”
    “His face get in?” I asked, impressed despite myself.
    “No, it’s easier to shoot around him than argue.”
    I shook the papers. “He’s a seasoned actor. He never makes a mistake in front of the camera.”
    Her eyes flashed at me. “I don’t like to sound mean, but he’s a star, he doesn’t act. He makes personal appearances in movies.”
    “Redford played
The Natural.
” I read the last entry before she could answer me. “ ‘Work incomplete, Mr. Hanscomb lost his voice, he also informed production manager he was unhappy with crucifixion.’ ”
    “What didn’t he like about it?”
    “He wanted more light.”
    “Where?”
    “Oh, all over.” She poked her crutch at the glowing logs in the fireplace, trying to ignite a flame.
    “Did he get the light?”
    “No way.”
    I knew her all too well. My friend was five feet tall and compensating like mad. The only woman I knew who had a Napoleon complex.
    “What scene was it?”
    “Just a routine two-shot with Mary Magdalene.” A showerof sparks jumped at her. She burst out: “My idea of filmmaking is to do storyboards, set up cameras, rehearse actors, and do my job. He wants hours of discussion with me, the wardrobe girl, and anybody who’ll listen until he gets himself in the right mood to do a fifty-second take. Then he holds seminars on which takes to print. He’s very expensive.” She leaned close to the fire. “He would spend
three years
on this island.”
    I